


The Nightmares That Keep You Up At Night

by ReaperOfAngels



Category: Nightmares - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-10 15:01:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17428184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReaperOfAngels/pseuds/ReaperOfAngels
Summary: My nightmares and night terrors. The first chapter is extremely graphic, do not read unless you are comfortable with reading about extreme violence and rape. The other chapters are a little more tame.





	1. The Terrors of Living in Solitude With a Sadist

Scrub, scrub, scrub.

Scrub, you bastard child. He spits at me with a snarl and I scrub harder. My fingers hurt. My shoulders ache. My face hurts from how I keep furrowing my brow.

I scrub for hours, and hours. I scrub all the tile, every wooden board, every wall in the house and every surface, all while he snarls and growls.

He's gone quiet. He's staring at me again, I know he is, and I can feel the dread filling my very being. I don't want it. Not again. I would prefer the whip again over having to live through that again.

By the time I'm done scrubbing, my nails are chipped and bent, dried blood outlining every ridge. My skin had broken open on each and every one of my fingers, and they've been bleeding so bad that the rag has small stains on it.

Down to the cellar, bitch! And don't forget the basket! He yells at me and kicks my side, which is still sore from last night where his nails had dug into my skin. I get up in a haste, running to get his laundry basket and haul it down to the cellar, where the washboard, the water basin, and the soap is. I quickly boil water and dump it into the basin, along with the soap, then carefully wrap my fingers in the worn, bloody bandages. I had to steal them, but I had them. I couldn't let him see me with them, but if I got blood on the clothes again, he would bring out those awful frozen peas and make me kneel on them again. The last time he made me kneel, he made me do it for two hours, and when i struggled to catch up, he made me do another two hours. My knees had blistered and cracked skin by the end of it, and I still wasn't fully healed, especially since he would grab them at night.

So I get to hand washing the clothes, and thought, absently, if I'd ever get another outfit so I could clean the ones I had on me. I missed bathing. I missed wearing clean clothes.

By the time I had finished cleaning the too many clothes for one man, the palms of my hands and my upper knuckles had been rubbed raw, and my wrists and shoulders ached more than before.

I hung all the laundry to dry, but before I could hand the last one, I felt his hand grab me from behind and then run up my spine. I held back a squeal and a shiver, careful not to entice him as his fingers dragged over the month old wounds on my back. 

I think it's time for another beating, he whispered menacingly in my ear, then forced me to strip away my shirt, showing the still-sore scars that were a sore pink, the dead white skin trying desperately to cover the muscle and tendons underneath. He tied my hands together and hung me at my place on the ceiling by the rope cuffs, and I winced as the rough material dug into my wrists, scratching and scarring me. My feet barely reached the floor. If only I could reach the floor and run. 

All thoughts ran from me as the whip made first contact, forcing a gasp from my lungs, but I bit back my scream of pain. I could already feel the first rip causing other rips, could already feel the dark blood flowing from my back to soak into my only pair of shorts, just like the rest of the blood. 

Second contact, and my vision blurred with tears as I hissed from the pain and arched my back in a desperate attempt to get away from the whip.

By the time the third contact came, I was feeling dizzy and beginning to black out. Was this it? Did I finally get to die? Anything would be better than this, especially death...

But then the whip didn't come again. He lifted me off the metal hook, and then ran his hands over my bare arms. I couldn't help but shudder. 

You looked delicious, he whispers in my ear, hanging there, helpless to me and the pain. I'm sure you know how to deal with this problem you've caused.

I feel myself nod. It's the only answer I can give, because if I give any other, he'll only be rougher.

So he forces me down to my knees, and growls as he unbuckles his belt. You're lucky it's whipping night, he says to me, or you'd be tied in my bed screaming for me instead of this.

Vaguely, I agree that I've very lucky it's whipping night, because my sides were still bruised from the night before, but before I can reason with myself that nothing about my situation, no matter how much easier whipping nights were, was lucky, he shoved it in my mouth.

I hated sucking him off, almost as much as I hated having having his cock stuck up inside me. He was too big - it didn't matter how many times he raped me, it still felt too big, and it felt like he was ripping my bowels apart every time, but having his prick in his mouth was literally  _suffocating_. I couldn't breathe whenever he made me do this, and several times I had come dangerously close to passing out from lack of oxygen.

Just as I was about to begin my laborious task, I felt a warm,  _loose_ liquid filling my mouth, and I let out a muffled scream of protest and shock and tried to pull my head away, but he grabbed me by the hair and forced me to stay, growling.

You know what to do. Go on, swallow all my piss. Serves a slut like you right, to swallow another man's piss. Go on, swallow it all!

So I did, because I couldn't handle a whipping night being the same as the rest. I swallowed it like I would water, and looked up at him again, feeling dazed. He smirked at me.

Look at you, with your pretty, lifeless blue eyes and you dark hair. You look as pretty as any girl, with her lips wrapped around the cock of her master. Go on, winch. Suck for all your worth. You're going to be here for a while.

So I did, because I couldn't handle a whipping night being the same as the rest. I sucked as hard as I could, and tried to get him off as fast as possible, because I couldn't breathe like this, and he didn't allow any breaks.

At some point, though, he seemed to get impatient with me, because he tightened his grip on my hair and began to pump his hips, forcing his cock all the way down my throat and back out and back in, over and over and over, faster and rougher until he had me pinned onto the floor, violating my throat with his piss and his cock like would a hole.

He only pulled away after he had cum, cum so much that it was running down my chin and cheeks and bubbling out my nose, for there was no hope in me swallowing it all.

Get up and go to bed, bitch. We start again tomorrow.

So I did. I got up, grabbed my shirt, and scurried off to go to my tower. He followed me, of course. I painstakingly walked up the fifty something stairs on sore feet with the scars of a whipping and the scars of another painful, painful day. 

I got to my room, and he locked the door behind me.

My room had no windows, my room had no lamps, my room had no candles. My room was pitch black, and while it had some things in there, i wasn't sure what. I had only ever seen mere glimpses of what could be in there when the door was opened, since I was never allowed to stay in here during the day. I knew there was a bed, a very uncomfortable one, and a trunk at the end. I knew there was a dresser meant to have clothes, though I don't think there was any in there. 

It was pitch black. And I hated the dark. I made my way to the bed. Slowly, cautiously, going until my knee hit the edge. I fell into the rock hard bed, and felt the darkness surround me and the stinging of my back be replaced with my imminent fear.

I had to sleep though. Who knows when I would get to sleep again.

 

I was awoken not an hour after I fell asleep, and the day started again. I made my way down all the stairs slowly, then got to ironing all of the laundry and shining all of the shoes. My busted open fingers were burned from the iron that we needed to heat on the stove, and then covered with black and brown and red shoe polish. 

I missed the days when I got to paint, before I was taken by this devil of a man, when I had paint all over my fingers all the time. I was happiest with paint on my fingers. And the shoe polish almost looked like paint. But what I was painting? I wouldn't know.

After I was done ironing everything and shining every shoe until they looked like glassy, he made me wash my hands clean with soap so I could get to cooking. He was watching me, but I didn't care. I attempted to wash parts of my arms, too, and my face. I wanted a bath. I wanted to get rid of all this  _dirt and blood, all these sweat and tears_. 

I was then made a slave to the stove, preparing another one of his lavish feasts for his guests. I could hear my stomach rumbling the whole time I made him his meal. I both loved and hated the days I was made to work the oven and stove, because it meant I could eat whatever leftovers there were, but I was made to cook it all in the first place.

My feet ached terribly by the time I got done cooking, which was hours past noon, and he made me walk back up to my tower with barely working feet. He locked me in there again and then went downstairs to go greet his guests and make merry without his slave.

So I went to sleep, because who knows when I would get to sleep again.

 

The second time I was awoken, it was by a hollering voice ordering me to get up if I wanted any food.

So I did. I ran for my life down the stairs and began to eat as much as I could. This would be the only meal I would get until next week when I was made to do it all over again, I needed to eat and drink as much as physically possible to help me make it through.

By the time he came back downstairs, he was just watching me eat. I wasn't trying to be polite, but I certainly wasn't an animal either, and somehow he found distaste in the fact that he hadn't reduced me down to a pig yet.

As soon as he deemed that I had enough, he yelled for me to get my last drink and go up to his room. 

So I did, I grabbed the pitcher of water and eagerly drunk all the water that was left in it, then hurried up to his bedroom. 

The familiar ties were attached to the bed, and while those were confirmation, I had already known what he wanted. I wasn't allowed to come in here unless ordered to, and he would expect me to be undressed when he got up there. 

I stripped myself down, hating myself as I looked at my lithe figure, torn and bruised from months and months of abuse, my ribs too predominant for my own liking and muscles toned in all the wrong ways. These muscles weren't from working out, they were from working too hard and from the rough behavior I was handled every night. 

He came in and ordered me on my knees on the bed, and I did so, then put my hands up so he could tie them to the headboard. He did so, then slapped my rear too hard and made me gasp, gripping the headboard and trying to squirm away. He slapped again and I could already feel the tears welling up in my eyes. He wasn't happy tonight. He was never happy when he spanked me, and it made me dread every moment of it all.

And then he was inside, and it  _hurt_. It hurt so much. It felt like he was trying to tear my ass apart all too quickly, and I already knew I was bleeding again, and I knew he was planning on using the blood as a lube. 

He began pumping his hips, and I let out a choked sob, and just took it. Because there was nothing else I could do. It didn't matter if I fought him, it would only make him rougher, and he was already in a bad mood.

I took it and took it, screaming from the pain of him fucking my sore and raw insides, screamed as he dug his nails into the scars from the whips, screamed as he dragged the knife across the ridges of my ribs, making bruise bleed, and he only fucked me harder when he saw that I had gotten blood on his bed sheets.

I took it, even as he flipped me over onto my back and forced my fresh wounds to hit the sheets, making me gasp and arched up as he forced his lips over my own and shoved his tongue down my throat. I took it as he spread my knees apart, digging his palms into my knees hard, forcing one to dislocate briefly before he popped it back in place.

I took it even as he grabbed my cock and forced me to cum with him, and he came inside my ass, even though I begged and begged him to not cum inside me. I hated the feeling of his slimy, sticky, warm cum inside me. 

I took it as he pulled out, cum and blood and shit covering his cock, and he came up and sat on my small chest, pushing all the air from my lungs, and ordering me to clean it, which I did. I licked it off, I sucked it off, let him fuck my mouth like he had fucked my ass until he had cum once more in my mouth and all that was left on his cock was a slick coating of saliva.

He untied me and shoved me off the bed, and I fell off onto the floor like a dead weight, ordered me to grab my clothes and leave.

So I did, walking back up the ages of stairs back to my room, and he locked it behind me. I walked to my bed, not bothering with my clothes, since I would just be raped again in the morning.

But what he didn't know was that he had left a wire on his bedroom floor, and I had grabbed it before I left, since it was so close to my clothes, and he hadn't noticed. 

 

When I woke up in the morning, it was to birds chirpping, not his loud, thunderous voice. I got up and went to my door, and heard his voice downstairs, along with a female's. 

I hurriedly got dressed the best I could in the pitch darkness, then used the wire I had gotten yesterday to pick the lock. I had to thank father for teaching me how to pick a lock whenever I got free. 

So I slowly made my way downstairs, fixing my rags as I did to make sure I didn't look as awful as I felt, and probably was. I hadn't seen myself in a mirror in ages, I probably looked like a monster. 

But when I got downstairs, master was just now leaving, locking the door behind him, and there on the living room couch sat a woman I thought I would never see again.

My aunt! My aunt was here!

I went running to her and hugged her as soon as I got close enough, and she sounded startled, hurriedly asking who I was.

I pulled back and breathed, a smile on my face for the first time in a long, long time, and then she recognized me, and she was all smiles, too, until she saw the state I was in. 

I told her everything. The beatings, the rapings, the minimal food and water, the forced labor. The slapping around, the overly sexual content and gazes, and how he constantly referred to me as a girl, as if that would somehow make what he was doing better. My aunt took pity on me and just as she got up with that determined look on her face and told me she was getting me out of here, master walked back through the door, and as soon as he saw me, he looked ready to tear me limb from limb.

* * *

I wake with a start to my mother shaking me, cooing at me. "Wake up, aNE4i, wake up."

I do. I wake up trembling. Not crying, but trembling, and unable to move.

My mother laughs as she pets my cat, who's begging for affection, as always. "Come on, child, we got work to do!"

This doesn't help. But she doesn't notice my trembling. The blanket is too thick, and the deep frown on my face is normal, so is my mute behavior. I don't talk in the mornings. She doesn't notice how upset I am, and I suppose that's my fault.

"Come on, get up!"

I'm trembling and unable to move, and I wouldn't want to move even if I could. But she isn't leaving until I sit up. So, instead, I turn over onto my back, and let the ache all over me set in from my sleep paralysis. 

I can feel everything. The sharp pain of the whip, the dull, tearing ache in my lower regions, the scratches on my wrists. I can feel the ways the balls and heels of my feet ache, and I can even still taste the way his prick tasted with the blood, semen, and shit on it.

I don't say this to my mom. I don't say anything to my mom. She seems happy that I got up and apparently doesn't need further confirmation that I'm ready to start the day.

 _It's Sunday_ , I remind myself as I look over at the clock, which says 8:09 AM. I flop back down onto the bed and stare up at the ceiling, and let myself bask in the memories. The awful, awful memories of a year of pain and rape.

Because I don't know what to do other than bask in it. Soon the pain goes away in all the places that it should have never existed, and even if I looked at my wrists or my back now, I knew I wouldn't find any scratches or whip marks, but it had felt so genuine that I thought I had really gotten them.

The only thing that lingers are the memories and the taste in my mouth. I don't know if I will ever forget that taste.

 


	2. The Incident No One Remembers

I always try and tell myself that this is something I manufactured, something I made up in my own head, but I have vivid, vivid memories of him, and I can't get him out of my head. He's always there, in the back of my mind, smiling happily at me like any other kid should.

We were only ten. Only ten years old. The best friend I never told my mother about, my long time crush, Benjamin. 

I can't get his wild brown eyes out from behind my eyelids, or his dirty blonde hair. I can't get that crooked grin to leave my memories, or that laugh to vanish from my daydreams, even though it's been nearly seven years now.

We were only ten. We were the best of friends, but we didn't go to the same school so we could only meet up in our neighborhood to play video games. Our favorite were the Legend of Zelda games, and a couple of the Mario games, I guess. I liked to play the Legend of Zelda games and tease my friend because he looked a lot like Link, just with darker hair and brown eyes instead of blue ones. He would always smile that brilliant, shy smile, and ask if I was serious. My only answer would be yes. He liked it when people called him Link.

We were only ten when I went out by the Lake. It was just days before my birthday, something I recognize as true in real life, so it makes me shudder to think that this might have been real. I don't want it to be real. If it was real, then why does no one but me remember?

Because I remember seeing the boys from the other elementary school holding Benjamin in the air above the sand while he kicked and struggled before they threw him in the water. I remember screaming for him and running and I remember the boys holding me back by my arms as I watched my love sink into the icy water and get picked up by the constant push and pull of the deep, cold waters.

I remember them chuckling and asking me why I was freaking out, that he would just come back up, and I remember screaming three little words at them that made their faces go white as a sheet.

He can't swim.

They had let me go and I had dove into the water, but by then it was too late. He was gone, lost to the murky waters of the lake and picked up by one current or another. I remember being able to see absolutely nothing in the foggy waters of that wretched lake and I remember coming up gasping for air and screaming his name until my throat went raw.

 

Mourning wasn't easy, mourning isn't ever easy. I remember trying to forget he even existed, and succeeded for almost a year. I burned all his pictures, stuffed away all the old games we used to play or instead played them with my father to replace those memories with ones of my dad. I remember switching which side of the bed I laid on, so I would look over and expect to see someone that wasn't there. 

But it was all in vain.

Because when everything came rushing back to me when I turned twelve, or rather, a couple days before I turned twelve, I became a wreck, and Junior High was a literal hell on Earth because my mind was nothing but  _him. Him. Him._

It took me another whole year to remember his name, and by that point I had a boyfriend, one I shared my awful dreams of with. But I never told him about this, I never told him about how I have such vivid memories of a blonde boy with wild brown eyes. The boy with a blue room and green bed sheets and an old gamecube in his bedroom that somehow still worked. The boy with the graphic tees and the video game posters and silly drawings proudly posted on his walls like works of art. The boy who told absolutely awful jokes that I loved but can't quite remember anymore.

My friends - I tried to tell them, but for some reason, every time I do tell them, not days later they seem to forget I ever did. It's like I'm cursed to simply remember him on my lonesome.

I still remember that boy with the crooked grin, but for some reason I just can't quite place his being in any of the spots we used to play in.

I wish I hadn't burned all those photos. Maybe then he would less like Link in my mind and he would look more like Benjamin. Maybe I might remember the boy with the messy hair that I loved.


	3. Chainsaws and Bandages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This nightmare is a little more graphic, but it doesn't talk about any actual gore since no gore actually happened in any of these dreams.  
> This was a recurring nightmare I had, and I had it every week for nearly three months but I only remember less than a handful of them, since i don't have it anymore. They stopped abruptly after the last entry.

Running.

Running, running, running. 

Was there anything other than running? I wasn't sure. I wasn't even really aware of what I was running  _from_ , all I knew is that if it caught me, I was dead, but I wasn't sure how.

I heard a familiar  _whirring_ and I ran faster, feeling my blood run cold. I ran into an abandoned building and dove into a cubby and pulled the door shut on myself.

The whirring got louder, and louder, and louder, until it sounded more like a  _buzzing_ than a whirring. I glanced out the slits in the cubby and got a glimpse of what I was running from. 

It was a large, stout man that looked like he was covered in bandages, and some of them were  _floating_ of all things, and all of those floating bandages were holding buzz and chainsaws, all on and making loud echoes throughout the empty building.

He had a red light emanating from his front, but I had no idea what he looked like.

* * *

Running again. I couldn't even feel my legs running, there wasn't any pain coming from them. That was comforting in a way, it let me know that this was just a dream, but my adrenaline wasn't listening to that line of logic in my head.

So I ran and ran and ran and I felt my brain begin to tell me to stop but instead of stopping I made myself keep going. I ran all the way to a house that wasn't my own, and I ran in, closed the door behind me, then crept up the stairs as quietly and quickly as I could, so he wouldn't hear me going upstairs. I heard the buzzsaws cutting through the door instead of him use his large hands to get in.

I crept up to the attic after I figured out how to get the ladder down, then pulled the later back up. This house's attic had a finished floor, so I wouldn't have to worry about falling through or him figuring out where I was. 

So I sat there in the attic and listened to him creep around the house, with his 'tools' whirring dangerously below me. It felt like hours that he searched for me, just the constant noise of the chainsaws filing my ears, as he knocked things over, cut things open in his search for me, and, at one point, I head blood-curdling screams from downstairs and heard a loud splatter and a bang.

When the screaming died down, I heard him chuckle,  _chuckle,_ then he left the house. I felt safe for a moment before remembering I was in a house I didn't know that he was bound to come back to, that was probably now a murder scene.

I had to get out of there.

* * *

I ran all the way to my house without interruption. I was quiet, stuck to shadows, and didn't see him the whole way there. I got inside my home and ignored the blood spatter on the white walls, hurrying downstairs and going to the family room off to the left, and into the crawl space. Realistically, I knew I shouldn't go in there since I couldn't lock it from the inside and the only other exit was through a closet in the downstairs hallway, and that was blocked off by a clothing cart and a vaccuum cleaner, but it made me feel safe despite it was obviously not. 

As I moved to crawl in deeper in hopes that if he found me, I would be able to avoid him through careful maneuvering around christmas boxes and old card collections, though, the crawl space door slammed open and I turned onto my back to see my killer lunge at me. I barely had time to process that this man had not face. Just a large, red disc on his head, glowing omniously and shining right at me, with all chainsaws raised and a buzzsaw going straight for my stomach. 


End file.
